Acquainted Limbo
by eshajouri
Summary: Kenny doesn't mind if they want to name his issues; this is their problem. But the torture begins when he starts believing he has the issues they are naming.  Abandoned
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Well, this is my way to explain why no one remembers Kenny dying and etc. The chapters will be very short, but please enjoy! Let me know if you like, hate, love or despise it. Warn me about any mistakes, okay? Reviews always make my day brighter; if you have suggestions, I'll be happy to read them.

**Warnings:** Mental issues, despair and _possible _overdose. I am ******not **an expert about mental issues and meds, but this chapter won't mention anything specific; for the next chapters—that ___will _mention the illnesses and stuff—I'll use my shrink's help, so it can be more accurate. Please, keep reading, okay?

**Disclaimer:** (is this really necessary? Anyway) I don't own South Park. Otherwise it wouldn't be as fun.

* * *

**Prologue**

_Oblivion_ is such a beautiful word, isn't it? There's a place known as such, the dark oblivion, where Cartman longs to throw us, his _asshole_ friends, into.

I've been to Heaven and I've been to Hell too many times to count, but this place, the limbo, the edge between the Paradise and the eternal damnation, is their favorite place to send me to. And by _them_, I refer to the sick bastard who makes me go through death thousands of times without pity or mercy. By _them_, I refer to the heartless, hideous being who has the power to make a bullet travel through my brain, guts or heart, and makes me remember it, then, finally, makes me alive again just to experience it all over. By _them_, I refer to the one who craved the feeling of being stabbed, shot, decapitated, torn apart, burned, ran over, the feeling of fucking _dying_ into a goddamn 10 year old.

Immortality is not pretty cool, you know?

No one knows what it feels like; to live restless, always waiting for something to happen—something only _I _will remember. A tragedy that sends a rush of blood through my veins violently, or simply _interrupts_ it. Whether I bleed dry or have my head burst, it always _fucking hurts_, like it doesn't matter how I die, but _how much_ I suffer. Not just here, while leaving my body, but also _there_. In the shitty dark oblivion. There, where I'm hunted down by creatures too horrible for man to ever imagine, where I'm killed, eaten, crushed like the damn cockroach that is my life's greatest metaphor.

Isn't it too cruel to be true? Well, my parents think so. And that's why I'm on meds right now. And therapy. How can they afford it, I really don't know, but I guess my case is pretty serious; those doctors gave a lot of names to my issues—schizophrenia, autism, self-punishment (because of some scars that remain, apparently caused by nothing else but myself), depression, paranoia, identity crisis.

It really scared the living shit out of me, I mean, to think I might be living some kind of Matrix, as though nothing is real. They all say, "Ken, you'll be okay. It's all in your head."

Let me tell you something, butt faces. I don't think so.

"Hello, Kenneth," she greets me with a plastic smile.

It's a small room. There's only her armchair and the divan where I'm sitting, facing one another with a small table in between; a big window, its view is all white, except for a tree or two, and a car passing eventually on the road outside. The cabinet is always closed, but, when she opens it, all I can see is blank papers, pencils and lots of piled stuff with no organization—those things shrinks use to fuck up your mind in the old Freudian style; and the door, which remains closed until the session is over. All white. Even her clothes; I feel like an orange lost in an asylum.

If I wasn't crazy before, it's this place's fault I am now.

"So, how was your week?" is how she starts everytime.

"Fine," I learned it's always the best answer. They see through anything, those people. Every syllable you spit out is a window to your head; inside here, you're a pattern.

"How many times have you died since last time we met?" she asks, like it's not manipulative at all, maybe trying to trap me into believing she gets what I've been through.

I shift my eyes to the _also white_ carpet, analyzing the threads that jump out the pattern, seriously feeling like pulling them out. Not that I have OCD _too_, but they just look like they want to get out there. Like me. Like no other thread knows them. Like they want to be saved.

"None," I gaze up back at her, all smilingly, as if trying to say, _the meds fucking worked, isn't it nice? Just tell me to stop taking them, they're seriously fucking me up._

"Now, Kenny," her voice reprehends me. She didn't buy it. "You know it's important that you don't lie to me. You can trust me, you know that, right?"

I don't answer for long moments. If there's _anything_ those people are good at, it is waiting; they have a lot of patience, and, if they ask you twice, it's because you took an eternity to answer their (demanding) questions—but it doesn't make me feel less like a rat trapped in a corner, surrounded by starving cats; it must be that _predatory_ look she has stamped on her face. The look Hitler probably was wearing while he brain-washed an entire country; the look that made me_ need_ to get out, without even knowing if I was actually caged. The Tweek-like paranoia is starting to eat me up, but, _fuck_, she wants to hear that I'm better, _so I'm fucking telling her I'm better_.

"I know," I smile, trying to make my heart stop contorting inside my chest. It also wants to get out there. Everything feels tight. "I'm not lying."

The air suddenly fell heavy, like the oxygen in the room turned into hot lava, its weight barely letting me inhale properly. My lungs hurt, I feel like throwing words up—_save me, save me, save me, save me, __**save me**__, _**SAVE ME**.Someone, save me. _Anyone_.

And no one comes. I'm still sitting in front of her; she's waiting patiently for me to say something, to surrender to her hungry eyes. My throat is dry. The clock seems to drag time slower and slower and slower and _God, when am I getting out of here?_—Wait, she's writing something down. Maybe another medication. It's another medication. It is for sure another one. Just the thought of numbness that stuff make me feel and the insomnia they cause makes so much blood pull through my arteries it _hurts_, and then it comes back through my veins with such determination, almost making my heart explode. I can even hear the loud thumps crashing on my eardrums, as though they were announcing a war and there was a freaking army marching on my brain; I might go deaf because, _God, it's so goddamn loud it fucking __**hurts**_.

—And I can hear a voice. A quiet whisper in my brain, washing all the symptoms and chaos out of my head all of sudden. No, the chaos is still there, it hasn't vanished completely, but I can part it from his voice. I picture him, behind her, mouthing silently, _Stay conscious._

_Stay strong._

_I need you._

And then all the noise ceases.

"_I'm fine_, doctor."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Finally! Sorry I took so long to publish such a short chapter. I think the next one will be the last, so don't worry; please, review it if you like, love or hate it. Anything is fine, so, enjoy!

**Warnings **(for this chapter)**:** Mental issues, repressed memories, OD.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own South Park and its wonderful characters.

* * *

**Memories**

My head hurts. The loud thumps are back. I'm lying on the floor; I know it's my room because I'd recognize this old, dirty carpet anywhere. There's vomit around me. And meds, too. The opened little bottles are messy, poured pills here and there.

Did I overdose?

I attempt to stand up, but everything is spinning and I feel dizzy and I can't think straight. I fall on my knees again, holding my head—it hurts so _bad_. I bend over, slowly lying down again like a fetus. It's a matter of seconds until I realize my stomach and legs and _everything _hurt. I start mouthing silent, desperate cries; maybe, just _maybe_ it will make the agony stop. Tears start falling out from my eyes, which are shut closed tightly as I try to think of ways to make it stop, but I can't because _nothing makes sense_.

Memories start to unearth themselves inside my head, playing like a movie. There is Cartman, Kyle and Stan; they're playing all by themselves in the playground. They're probably around... what, nine? But Cartman doesn't seem bothered by Kyle. No, it's quite the opposite—they even laugh together. And I remember Cartman had his Nazi-complex since he was, like, born... but they look happy. Until they look towards me.

"_Stay away, you poor bastard!"_

What?

"_Go away!"_

Kyle? Kyle, what the—

"_Fuck off, dude!"_

Stan, what's going on—

The flash is cut and my breathing is heavy, but I can't actually hear it—not even a sound, and I think I'm definitely deaf. My chest hurts with every load of oxygen that is brought to my lungs; there must be a cancer there, an infection, anything that explains this excruciating pain. This is not normal. Not even for me.

Another flash starts.

It's Kevin.

"_Come one, give me that money, you little cocksucker!"_

What? "Kevin, it's my lunch money. You—you're my brother. You're my older brother."

"_Shut up! Stop whining and give me the fucking money, I need it."_

"No, Kevin, wait, I—what are you doing with this money? Weren't we supposed to buy that new video game together? Kevin! Kevin, wait, don't! Kevin, don't hurt me! What are you doing! I'm your—"

I scream as hard as my throat allows without being torn apart. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. Kevin would never, _ever_ lay a finger on me. He's always been the best brother he could to me. "What, just _what_ was that?" I ask myself, holding my body as my cry hardens increasingly. God, my head hurts and I can smell blood. My nose is bleeding.

"_Kenneth, where the **fuck** are you!"_I hear my father calling. I... I can remember this.

"Dad... dad, please..."

"_What? You're such a wuss! Don't give me that face, Kenneth. Man up, you little piece of shit!"_

He's reeking of alcohol. The smell is so fresh. It's there. It's a memory. It's not my imagination.

"_What are you crying for, pussy?"_

I choke.

"Dad! Stop!"

One. Two. Three. He hits me three times. Right in the face.

"_It's your fault Karen is dead! It's **your** fault alone! You should have protected your sister! But where the fuck were you? Huh?"_

"Dad, I—I'm sorry! It's not my fault, please, dad!"

I lie on the ground, exactly like I did that night. My stomach hurts so bad and my nose won't stop bleeding; I can even feel his kicks on my back, the sick smell of alcohol filling the atmosphere around me and—and I try to stand up and fall on my knees once more. I choke between my sobs.

_Cough._

_Cough, cough, cough._

_Cough, cough, cough, cough, coughcoughcoughcoughcough._

_**Blood**_. There's blood. I just disgorged blood and bile, everything's spinning and I can't see shit. I reach for the pills, I try to swallow them, I throw up again, God, oh my _God_, help, I need help. I try to scream, my voice won't come out, and the thumps are there, trying to blow up my brains, massacring any rational thought that might try to be formed. No, no, no, _no, please, **stop—**_I scream for real now, ripping my throat apart, crying as loud as I humanly can, spitting blood, staining the carpet. And it's funny, because there are more stains than I can count. Did it happen before? Has it ever happened before? Because my mind is—

I remember it.

The time I tried to suicide. That time I stabbed a piece of broken glass into my wrist, but I can't recap it clearly, it's all blurry. What happened from there? I can't remember dying. How was that? I don't even know if that time hurt. Maybe because all I can feel now is _pain_, that torturing pain that won't leave me, and the bitter taste of vomit on my mouth.

There's a blurry purple spot there. Right in the corner of the room, looking directly at me. It's him. I think it's... him...

Someone enters the room. It's a blurry white spot. They scream, but their voice is muffled, it sounds like _we're losing him_, but I can't heart it properly, but I know it's a woman. Something stings my arm and I black out.

_Don't_, he whispers.

_Bear with this just a little longer._

_I'll make the pain go away._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Hey, guys, sorry for the (really, _really)_ late update. I thought no one liked this fanfic, so I kinda dropped it. But DeadEmy left a review that really made me a lot happier about this! My writing sucks, since English is not my native language (but I swear I'm working on it!), I guess. And I was quite busy with finals and, when summer break finally came (yeah, mine is in late December/January), I was hanging out with people I haven't seen in a while. Besides, all that came out of my head during the Brazilian tropical heat was too shitty to be posted. Now it's getting cold and I can write, but enough babbling about myself, haha. Enjoy and, please, leave me a review if you have the time~

**Most importantly! **I said this would be the final chapter. Well, that was a lie. I talked to some friends and we figured cool shit to add to the plot, so it's gonna be longer than I expected. Anyway~ thanks for reading.

**Disclaimer:** South Park is not mine and stuff.

* * *

**Dementia**

When I open my eyes, all I see is white, even before my eyes have the times to adjust to the blinding light. Even my clothes are fucking white. I sit up and look around; it's a cubicle with only a door and a mirror, hanging in the middle of the wall with no reason to be there. I've seen this scenario in movies, so it's reasonable to conclude I'm in some kind of prison or hospice or wherever they take insane people to. Besides, I know those people seriously like this dead color. The thought doesn't bother me as much as it should, though—I know they think I'm crazy. But I know better. I am not.

So I sit still for what seems to be hours, arms wrapped around my legs, which I can't actually feel. My whole body is numb. It sort of feels like floating... it's... No.

No.

No, it doesn't.

It feels completely different.

I can't feel my breath, I can't feel my heart; I'm entirely numb. Oh, God. I hold my legs closer, squeezing them between my arms, and I can hear my breathing, but can't feel it. I pinch my forearm, my hands, but nothing. I crawl to the corner of the room, practically throwing myself against the wall, but nothing. I hear the thump, but my skin won't respond, it doesn't even feel the floor against my bare foot or my nails sinking into it and—_ouch._

Blood starts leaking from the wounds and my senses slowly come back. I sigh, relaxing my muscles. My heart is beating frenetically against my chest and, for the first time in weeks, I feel relieved for that. I stand up, trying to catch my breath. I look around again, but, when my eyes fall upon the mirror, I can't see my reflexion—it's him on the other side.

_Ken_, he calls me warmly and I approach the looking-glass, and he mimics my moves from the other side. _Ken_, he says again, a relieved smile on his face, which, except for the cape and mask, is the only thing that differentiate us. _I thought you had forgotten me._

I put my hands on both sides of the mirror, facing him closely. "No," a genuine smile is my response to his affectionate words. "How could I?"

We just stare at each other for some time, getting familiar, even though we had all the exact same traces. _Well_, he breaks the silence, a more disappointed look taking over his features. _They want to take me away from you, you know_, it's his explanation to the sorrow dripping from his voice. I stay silent, kind of shocked; do they even _know_ about him? _They do, Ken_, he answers the question I never verbalized, sighing, as if it was all too obvious. _They know, and they think I'm __the one hurting you._

"But you're not."

_And you expect them to understand this?_ he responded immediately.

I don't have time to formulate a response; he stretches his arms, getting out of the mirror frame slowly, reaching me, cupping my face with both hands. Anyone who'd experience such a phenomenon as having your alias departing from a mirror like The Ring girl would probably crap their pants, but, somehow, I find it quite comforting, especially when I can't trust anyone else but myself anymore. And I can't say I'm completely sane (nor that I'm insane), but, in South Park, fucked up things happen more frequently than it should.

_Don't worry_, he said, once again reading my thoughts. How wouldn't he? He's part of me. _I'll take care of everything as soon as we get out of here; I won't let you handle all this pain by yourself, okay?_

"Thanks," is all I can manage to say before a sharp sting on the stomach makes me fall on my knees, driving me away from his relieving touch. I look up and he's not there anymore; _come back_, I want to scream, but my throat is way too tight to make any sound—"Ugh," I moan, and all that comes out afterwards is bile. I crawl away from the puddle of vomit, but my arms fail eventually, forcing me to lie down.

The pain won't go away, but it's not too bad—and he's there again, atop of me, both his legs on each side of my hips. He touches my chest, trying to soothe the agony.

_I'm your only friend, Ken._

A sound comes from under my breath, more like a plead for him to _help me, I can't take it_, my watering eyes drift shut as the stinging feeling gets worse. A choked cry slips from my sick mouth, desperate to form a coherent line. "Stay—ugh—with me."

_I will._

He grabs my hands, leaning forward so our eyes meet closely. _Do you get it, Ken? I'm the only one who can protect you from yourself; from all those who called themselves your friends. I'm your shelter, Kenny._

"I know," I cry, a sob escaping. "I know, _I know_, please, take me out of this place," I beg pathetically, desperate, agonized. "Please, don't let them take you away, please, please..."

_I won't go anywhere if you don't want me to_, he smiled tenderly, caressing my face. _Remember, Ken? I've been with you for years. Remember? When those assholes beat you up because you accidentally threw that ninja star on that little pussy's eye?_ _Don't you feel angry, Kenny? Did you deserve all that?_

I shake my head, tears flowing uncontrollably from my eyes; it's true. I know now, I _remember _now. Butters never got his eye back, I remember.

_No, no_, he whispered gently. _Don't blame yourself, Kenny. It wasn't your fault Butters was such a wuss. You did everything you could to help him, didn't you?_

"I—I tried to fix things," I choked.

_You did. But they never forgave you, did they? They were never your friends, Ken. Not for a single day were they by your side like I was._

"I know..."

_Yes. Don't you feel angry, Ken? They deceived you all those years. They took advantage of you, who was just willing to help them, and, when you needed them, where were they? Huh?_

"But," I breathed. "They..."

_No. Never. Not in a single moment they were with you, Ken. I was the only one._

"But Butters," I try. "He—ugh, he stayed with me... wasn't he, ugh, with me when I—AGH!" his fist crashing against my (already aching) stomach violently was too real to be only my imagination, like they say it was.

_He wasn't, Ken. That cheesing thing? It was me who were with you, Ken. He never forgave you, either. He **hates** you, Kenny. He hates you like everyone else in this pathetic town._

"What did you—ugh—do that for!"

_Because_, his voice showed off his anger, like it sometimes did, but he always tried hide negative emotions from me; he says he doesn't want me to see his ugly side. _I'm the only one who cares about you, Kenny. Why can't you see it? Your family doesn't love you. Don't try to deny it, you _know_ it, Ken. I'm your one and only. Not even _Butters_ likes you._

That line stings my chest, hurting even more than the pain in my stomach. He's right; he always was.

"I know," I admit, my eyes watering again. "I know, so don't leave me."

_I won't._

Everything starts fading to black, and a last soft whisper quiets all down.

_Don't you feel angry, Kenny?_

"Yes..."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N (important one, please don't skip it!):** Hey, guys. I figured you'd need a glossary, since there's a shitload of psychological stuff and some technical terms here some of you might not acknowledge; it'll be at the end of the chapter, and please feel free to ask me anything you still don't understand. I'll gladly answer and/or research anything you might need. You also need to know I'm not in Psychiatry nor Psychology college (yet!) and quit therapy, so I'm on my own now; I'm just a slob who has Internet access and knows how to use Google and Wikipedia.

**Long ass explanation I'd like you to read: **Well... I'm so sorry about the late update again (and about the typos in the last chapter I noticed, like, yesterday); because of some school crap and mainly because inspiration seems to avoid me as much as possible, I haven't been able to write at all. Anyway, I'm seriously disappointed with this fic for, as I said before, English is not my native language, so I get really insecure about my writing and it seems like you don't like it either. I love the plot but can't write it down properly; I don't want to seem appellative, but if I can't get at least three reviews for this chapter, I might drop it (or leave it on hiatus until I can write it more articulately). I'm _really_ sorry, but I'm feeling discouraged to keep on writing.

**Anyway**, this chapter won't be from Kenny's POV like the other ones, and some of the next chapters won't be either. Hope it doesn't fuck the entire story's aesthetics up.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the plot and the random characters that may appear along the story.

* * *

**Stockholm Syndrome**

"Mr. McCormick," a voice drifts Stuart out of his sadly sober daydreams, an extended hand offered to him. "My name is Rachel Wood. I'm the doctor in charge of your son."

"Hey," he says getting up, taking her hand and shaking it lightly. A questioning look lingers on her eyes, like there is something missing on the scenario, then he added as he took his cap off, "Uh, Carol, my wife, she is—uh, she couldn't come because she had to, uh, look after our older son."

"Oh," she murmured, noting he's obviously lying; Kenny is sixteen and he had said his brother is three years older. Why would a nineteen-year-old need babysitting during an afternoon? She prefers not to mention it either way. "Anyway. Kenny has been under observation, as we told you earlier; he presents all the classic symptoms that correspond to schizophrenia and has a severe depression," she runs her eyes through the table filled with notes doctors usually carry around. "But you might know it already," her eyes meet his with a serious look. Stuart gasps silently. "I'm here to make you some questions, if you have the time. Your wife's presence would be appreciated, but, as she had to," she clears her throat as though the lie he had just told is choking her, "look after your kid, you'll have to answer for her as well. If you don't mind, that is."

Stuart swallows dryly, known the fact he actually didn't have any choice. He nods, then follows the psychiatrist through a white corridor, entering a door that had her nameplateon it; it has little decoration, mostly standardized, in order to let her true identity as a _human_ _being_ out of her business, he concluded.

"Please, take a seat," she commands more than offers, sitting at the other side of the office table. Immediately when Stuart does, she leans forward. "Well, Mr. McCormick, has your son ever suffered traumas? Maybe when he was six to nine years old."

Flashing memories of him beating the hell out of Kenny for stupid reasons crossed his mind at her words; amongst several occasions, he specifically recalls the day Karen had been hospitalized—and later died—because of a car accident, when Kenny couldn't take her to school safely; a simple task that even the dumbest kid in the world (and by that, he meant the town handicap freak, Timmy) could complete with no further complications, but not Kenny. Not goddamned Kenneth—and he clinches his fists discreetly and bluntly answers, "No." Because, from his point of view and the way he himself had been raised, boys shouldn't cry nor consider some punches 'traumas'.

"Mr. McCormick, I need you to answer my questions honestly," Stuart feels a warning glare from her, but she doesn't quite intimidate him about this.

"I am, doc."

"Okay," she mumbles with disbelief and writes something down. "And did he have an imaginary friend of any type during his childhood?"

"No," is his answer again. "Not that he mentioned, no," he says as what he really meant was that he never actually paid attention to it.

As ignorant as Stuart had always been about psychiatric matters, he felt those questions were nothing about schizophrenia or depression; at least, none of the previous doctors that had Kenny diagnosed—which weren't quite few—had mentioned imaginary friends.

"Sorry, doc," he interrupts and she eyes him curiously. "But what is the questioning for? I mean, uh, not to be rude, but what's with the imaginary friend thing?"

"Oh, we were just getting to it," she puts her pen down, a sign that usually indicated long and freaky explanations about Kenny's 'disabilities'. "I've checked your son's historic and I see he has already been diagnosed with schizophrenia and depression. You were sent here for one reason—we're the only ones in town who treat a mental disorder called DID, which stands for _dissociative_ _identity_ _disorder,_ popularly known as multiple personality disorder or MPD. You might have heard about it, there was a famous case some years ago," he shook his head, but she ignored it. "It's a quite rare case, in which the patient presents mannerisms, beliefs and attitudes that differ drastically. Basically, it's like there are various people within one body. Also, few people actually study it, once in that one famous case the therapist had led the patient to believe she had multiple personalities and created memories she had never lived."

"So, uh," he frowns with slight confusion in his eyes, since he stopped paying attention at some apparently crucial point. "You're telling me Kenny thinks he's... he's himself and another person at the same time? Like he's totally and irreversibly and insanely fucked up? Is that it?"

"Not quite, Mr. McCormick," she lets a little annoyance show through, quickly getting back to her professional mask. Some time in a town like South Park and her degree taught her how to deal with dumb fucks like Mr. McCormick, Rachel thinks to herself. "There _is_ a theoretical cure to DID, but we need to be sure he suffers from the disorder so we can treat it properly. What I'm telling you is that we suspect your son suffers from a rare illness that causes him to believe, once he realizes it, that there are separated people inside him, that are apart from his own mind. That's a way a child that suffered several abuses on their early years find to keep their subconscious from falling apart; they repress violent memories by replacing themselves with the personality they create in traumatic events," she explains, pausing to let the information sink in. _"_We're not sure, though. It's an assumption, since he does present symptoms of schizophrenia, such as auditive and visual delusions; he has sudden headaches, body pains and dizziness. He also reported he had blacked out several times during therapy sessions after anxiety attacks, but his therapists describe he never did—they say he suddenly wore a more calm and controlled persona, which means he might succumb to pressure and let his alter ego run his body until he can handle the situation again."

"I see..." he mumbles dumbly, still frowning.

"We think he might have just one alter ego," she goes on. "The problem is, we've noticed that Kenneth more than simply _knows_ he has an alter ego. He's also friends with him; although his therapists said he sometimes seemed afraid of him—Mysterion, if I'm not wrong—he talks about him as a friend that protects him. Doctor..." she budges some papers. "Pinsky, his third therapist, says that he once quoted, 'he threatens me sometimes, but I know he's just trying to protect me from hurting more than I already have'. It's somehow a phenomenon called Stockholm Syndrome."

"I see," he repeats, more confidently. "But say, isn't he any better? I mean, he's been taking fucking expensive meds for a long time now."

She clears her throat. "That's because we're not _sure_ of what Kenneth suffers from. He's been taking lithium, which is used to treat bipolar disorder—and DID is commonly mistaken with bipolarity. As the medicine hasn't worked, we've already discarded it."

"Listen, doc, me and my wife work hard to keep an average life to our sons," he massages his temple. "But this messed up little fuck has to take those meds and fuck everything up like he always does. He threw a ninja star into a boy's eye and we had to pay for it, you know? And then he killed his sister. What now?" his voice kept growing louder with anger dripping from his tone, as he stood up, looking down on the doctor. "We're tired. We're fucking _tired _of paying for all those doctors and meds. We're tired of working our asses off while you keep fucking him up," he narrows his eyes and points a finger to her face, his voice drifting from angry to threatening. "So you better fix him. You better fix him _right fucking __**now**_ because we can't fucking take it," he finishes, buffing and leaving the room.

The psychiatrist raises her brows in shock as she could hear Stuart's furious steps echoing in the corridor, sighing at the realization he answered only two of numerous questions. She sighed again as she thought he nor his wife would cooperate.

"I'm going to look for answers on my own."

* * *

**Glossary**

**DID or MPD:** there are contradictions about this topic. Some psychiatrists say it's a self-suggested disorder, which means the therapist induces the patient to convince themselves that they are sick (which is what happened in the famous case the psychiatrist mentioned here; in another fake case of supposed MPD, the patient even wrote a book, called _The Three Faces of Eve_). But there are people who believe it exists and, as it's said in this chapter, it's a way of self-protection a child creates.

**Alter ego:** it's a second self, a second personality or persona within a person, who is often oblivious to the persona's actions. (Directly from Wikipedia. I'm just that lazy.)

**Persona: **it is defined as the mask we use to present ourselves to society; it's the way behave, the way we shape ourselves to fit in.

**EDIT: **I'M SO SORRY! I finished this like a month ago, but shit kept happening and I didn't feel like posting it. So here it is, I hope the next chapter doesn't take so long.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Hello, darlings! This chapter is back to Kenny's POV, so, enjoy. Thank you for you all who keep on reading this. Loved every and single on of the reviews; swear I won't be so appellative, sorry. I'd like to rant about how insecure I feel about my writing, but fuck that shit. I finished this chapter forever ago, I'm really sorry.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

* * *

**Hero**

I'm back to my room. Finally. I can't remember anything about the hospital since the day he talked to me; there's a lot of lapses of time and they're growing longer, but I can't bring myself to care—it's always been like that for a while.

I lie on my bed. What else is there to do?

My cellphone vibrates and I take it off my pocket. It's the alarm; 04:48PM, which means it's time to take the antidepressants. So I get up, my legs move to the cabinet and my arms stretch; but my hands won't grab hold of the bottle with pills. My face contorts into a disgusted expression. Anger begins to boil under my skin and I throw the medication to the wall; I realize my breath is short and my temples throb—my eyes hurt, like my brain is trying to push them out my head. I grit my teeth to stop a scream, which struggles in my guts to get out.

_You feel angry, don't you, Ken?_

"I'm getting tired," I tell him, releasing my breath. His voice is comforting. "Of feeling angry. Of everything."

_I know you are._

He's smiling. Though my eyes are on my feet, I can feel it. He's smiling, warmly and welcoming my pain. He loves it; when I struggle, when I'm angry, when I'm _desperate_—he feeds on my emotions; he takes the bad ones away, he tells me. They make us strong, he tells me. He protects me, he tells me.

_Everything will be just okay, you'll see_, he whispers to me. I can almost feel his arms around my neck, chest against my back, soft heaving landing on my skin. His heartbeat. It almost feels like a constant in chaos; a drumbeat that leads subtle destruction. _I love you, Ken_, he inhales quietly next to my ear, sending shivers down my spine. The raging bitterness slowly vanishes. I almost smile.

"I—"

The sound of a car engine stops midway my sentence. He lets go of me somehow without untangling his arms and the world is a little heavier now. I move to my window, parting the blinds to see who just pulled over.

05:03PM. It's Dr. Woods.

Time sure flies by.

"Hello," she greets me, entering my room without asking for permission. These people are too intrusive. "It's too dark in here, don't you think, Kenny?" she smiles, walking towards the blinds. She pulls the string and sunlight invades space; I groan and cover my eyes. The carpet is stained, my bed is undone, there's clothes and pills lying on the floor. What a great view of my kingdom. It's comforting, though.

It's _my_ place. My shelter.

I hate it when people touch it.

"I like it dark," I can't stop my voice, nor the disguised resent on it.

I remember my parents hired a Mexican woman to nurse me when I was twelve and this whole _thing_ started to get out of their control (again, I don't acknowledge where they found the money). She moved all my stuff, she _cleaned_ it; she thew things I treasured away and said that _your parents asked me to do so, Kenny_. I felt disgusted. I felt anger. I felt relieved and happy and safe when she disappeared.

Ifelt_ satisfied_ when they found her frozen corpse on Stark's Pond a week later.

Whoever had murdered her had been my hero for a couple months.

"So," Dr. Woods clears her throat, smiling. "How was your week?"

_Don't tell her you can't remember, Ken, it'll make things worse_, his purple frame is right behind her, an advertising and worried look on his features. I hold back my words, stare at him for a few moments, seeking for answers to give her. For _lies _I should tell her. He was pretty good at it, deceiving these people.

"Nothing new," I whisper, drifting my eyes back to her. "I—just, uh, I don't know," I shrug, trying to keep calm. Something about her disturbed me. Her eyes were just too reliable when they rested on me. "School, meds, played some games. Usual stuff. You know," I swallowed dryly, looking around. "Dead Nation is awesome," I added, just... to seem more natural, even though I don't even actually remember playing it. What was it about again? Zombies? Everything's about zombies nowadays.

"Alright," she shifted her bag from one shoulder to another, adjusting the white coat. "Can we sit down? I have some questions for you."

"'Kay."

I dragged the chair from the cabinet for her and sat on the edge of my bed. She took some papers out her purse and crossed her legs.

My heart began to feel unsettling inside my chest.

She wore a challenging look.

"Let me talk to Mysterion, will you?"

At the sudden words, my stomach flipped over and I blacked out.

_Don't worry_, I hear him saying.

_I'll take care of her, Ken. Promise._

_I'm your hero, aren't I?_


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Hey, guys. I know I've been absent and I'd like to offer a lame-ass explanation; since I quit therapy (I think it was late February/early March this year), my head's been pretty much of a mess. It's something like this: I'm fine, then I'm not, therefore I cut and think about a lot of shit, then I don't, I'm somewhat okay, but can't sleep (sometimes at all), but then I'm not that fine but can handle it, but I sleep an awful _lot_ and my head hurts like a bitch _everyday_. And there are other issues but blah. I have to thank all of you who reviewed this fic so far, it makes me so very, very happy! Thank you so much for keeping up with all my bullshit! I'm really thankful to all of you, guys. ;A;

**Disclaimer:**I own nothing but the plot and my issues which I make you all go through with me, unfortunately. Oh, I also don't own Pantera's song that titled this chapter.

* * *

**Suicide Note, pt. 1**

_She's too nosy_, I hear his voice in a dark corner of my mind, dipped with something softer than anger, still stronger than plain annoyance. He sounds a little agitated.

My body seems to be on autopilot; my arms hurt from the repetitive movements of throwing earth with a shovel in a dump, a hole in the middle of the ground that is barely visible with a dim light of a lantern and I wonder faintly _just what the fuck am I burying?_ and I look down, narrowing my eyes to adjust to the lack of light and the answer is right there—pale, dead eyes gazing at me from the deep bottom. I catch my breath, an erratic pace shoots through my heart; I want to scream, I want to _thrash,_ I want to do so many things but all my gloved hands do is throw the shovel to a general direction and my legs fail and I fall to the ground on my lower back and _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck **FUCK**_.

"What," I try, my voice shakes as I speak, my hands shake as I look at them. "No, no, no, _no_, _what did you **do**_," I ask to my hands, I tear off the gloves and they're covered in blood. They're covered in _Doctor fucking Woods_' blood.

_Calm down_, he says, soothing my back with ghostly hands.

"_How_ can I! She's—she's fucking **dead**! She's fucking dead and, and," I take my hood off with more violence than needed, tug at my hair and try to think of how the fuck I ended up here. "You! You! It was you! _You _did this!" I let tears flow, I let myself cry, I let myself feel desperate, I let my heart hurt and I feel like it's going to explode, but I won't keep it from doing so, I won't, I don't want to, I don't intend to, because _I fucking killed my shrink_, she's right in front of me, dead, cold and I can smell death, I can fucking smell death and—

He touches me caringly. He doesn't let me scream, though; his hands have traveled silently to my throat and he presses it with his fingers, stopping the air from going to my lungs. A soft noise escapes from my mouth and he smiles faintly, as taking pity on me. _Don't scream, Ken_, he says softly. _Don't scream or they'll come here and blame you for her mistakes. For what she did._

I nod.

_They like blaming you, don't they?_

I nod again.

_They think it's all you fault. They think you want attention, they still think you wanted Butters to lose his eye. They think you killed Karen. They think you do it all on purpose, but you can't help it, can you?_

I shake my head no, because he's right. I know people hate me. I know they blame me for things I never wanted to happen; they just happen, that's how fucked up South Park is.

_You're their scapegoat, Kenny._

I'm their scapegoat.

_So don't scream_, he whispers, letting go of my throat. A loud gasp is all the sound I can make as my brain is suddenly bathed in oxygen again. _Don't scream, okay? She deserved it. She wanted to know all about us, she asked things she shouldn't know about. It's her fault, right? She's too nosy for her own good._

"I—I'm sorry," I plead, "I know it's not your fault. You wanted to protect us, I just—"

_You're scared and that's okay_, I can feel his arms holding my body, making my legs put me up and my hands grab the shovel. _Now you have to finish what we started, alright?_

I nod, although my hands still shake from the dead gaze staring me right into the eyes. He's right. He's always right.

_They all deserve it._

I nod.

I hear a noise behind me and panic washes over me instantly. _There's someone here_, he says.

_Shit._

* * *

**Ughhhh,** sorry it's so short. I'm really, really sorry, guys. ;n;


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** yay! A chapter that didn't take so long! I'd like to dedicate this one to **That Nixi Rose**, who really made me want to continue this story. Thank you so much, dear! You made me so very happy ;u; aaaaand I'd like to warn this chapter is a _little_ **graphic**; it's not that bad, but there are people who are easily upset, so I ask you to be careful and/or skip the parts you can't read. Don't force yourselves.

And, um, I was thinking about writing a series (thought the title _South Parkillers _would fit, but it's so **fugly** HAHAHAHA), which would basically consist in stories—not all related—with the characters involved in murders, something like Acquainted Limbo, but a little less psychological. Most of the stories would be one-shots and I have plots to Butters' and Craig and Tweek's stories, so I'd like you to give me your opinion, and I'm open to suggestions!

**Disclaimer: **Unfortunately, the only character that actually belonged to me is dead now, haha.

* * *

**The Boy In The Box**

My heart is beating erratically again as I turn to see Butters.

_Shit._

"K-Kenny," he says a little apprehensive. "Whu... what are you doing?"

_Fuckfuckfuckfuck—_and I'm not sure if it's me thinking or his voice echoing in my head.

"What are _you_ doing?" I narrow my eyes and try to calm my heart and keep my cool, noting he wears an eyepatch I had failed to noticed the few times I'd seen him after the ninja star incident. He's carrying a scout backpack, one of those that are monstrously huge, and Butters hasn't grown much, so it's practically his size. "In the middle of the night. In..." I look around. "In the woods. What are you doing?"

He looks around me and swallows dryly. "I—I ran away from home," he says. "Don't... don't tell m-my folks, okay?"

I shrug, "Yeah, okay, but why?"

He bites his lips and scratches the back of his neck. Even though I haven't noticed the eyepatch before, I _have_ noticed how his neck seems to be reddened and sore from all the scratching, which had become an habit that showed his nervousness since his mother made him stop rubbing his knuckles together.

"Wuh-well, my parents..." he hesitates, switching his weight from one foot to the other. "My dad, actually, he beat me real good," he said, showing me his right arm. Although the light flickered, I could see the huge bruise growing there. I have this urge to call him a pussy from running away just because of a bruise, but I remember how very few other kids are as poor as me or have a drunkard father like mine. I felt angry, because Butters has such a nice house, games and _food_ whenever he wanted, and he was willing to throw it all away just because of _one_ beating? I keep silent for several moments though, clenching my fists until my knuckles are white.

_How can he be so ungrateful? _his voice echoes my thoughts, almost aloud.

"And—well, and I, I thought, 'gee, if I'm that much of a bad kid, then they'd be better off without me', so I ran away," Butters adds out of the blue like he can read my mind (can everybody read my mind and get inside my head?), and I think he's blushing. I guess he's embarrassed. "Please don't think I'm being selfish, Ken," he says softly. "I really love my dad and my mom, you know, and, and I think... I think this is best for them, I'm such a bad kid," he sighs, letting his huge backpack slide off his shoulder and fall to the ground. I think I heard a sob.

Butters is crying.

His tears fall silently, and something clicks on my mind—it's been real long I haven't seen anyone crying. Probably because I don't really hang out with anyone anymore, but it softens the rage inside me anyway. Maybe Butters isn't such an ungrateful little fuck, right? So I walk to his side and pat his back, muttering incoherent comforting shit—lies, but somewhat white lies. It makes him stop crying after two or three minutes.

"It's going to be okay," I say. "With due respect, Butters, but your folks are really messed up."

For some reason, he chuckles, even though it's a sad chuckle, I feel a little better.

"They're not," he defends. "They know what's best for me, Ken. I, I'm awful sorry I can't thank them enough and be the good child they deserve."

"Well, what did you do that pissed your dad so much?"

Butters drives his gaze away from me and doesn't answer. I furrow my brow and ask again, "Then, what was that?"

"Nuh-nothing," he answers, standing up. "What—what were you doing anyway?" he walks dangerously near to the secret I was trying to bury, getting closer and closer and closer with each awkward step. My breath shortens—he's too close, too close, too fucking close,_ too fucking close_, get the fuck out, get the fuck away, Butters for fuck's sake _run._

A horrified look washes over his eyes and

_Bang._

My knees get weak; his bright ocean eyes look up at me, desperate and hopeless and I hit him with the shovel again and again and again and _I'm so fucking sorry it has to end this way._

"I'm sorry," I cry, smashing his legs. "I'm so sorry, Butters, I'm so fucking sorry," I hear his bones breaking; his fibula gives in first. Then the tibia, and the patella when I crash his knee. "_I'm so sorry_," I plead, crushing his femur. "But I can't let you get away, I tried to, Butters, I'm sorry, but he won't let me, he won't fucking let me. I wanted to warn you, I wanted to, but you're dumb, Butters, you're so fucking dumb," I manage to confess among his screams echoing through the woods; I go up and up and up and triturate his ribs.

"Kenny," he cries as I shatter his arms; he grabs my wrist. "Kenny, stop," he pleads. "Stop, please, stop, I—I won't tell anyone, let me go, please, God, Kenny, I'm beggin' ya," his eyes are so beautifully scared, wide open, pleading me.

I hit him again; his jeans are stained with blood and I can see where the exposed fractures are. I don't stop until I'm sure he can't move, then I put the hood over my head again. "I'm sorry, Butters," I say, pulling the strings. "You're so beautiful like this, but I can't let you get away. But don't worry, okay," I mutter under my breath, putting on my gloves before touching his face. "Don't worry, I'll—I'll make sure to deliver you, all of you, in the right fucking way. Don't worry, you'll be alright, everything will be fine."

His fragile body doesn't respond. My eyes water as I'm knelt beside him, caressing his cooling cheeks. "I told you it was going to be okay," I sob and _what did I just do._

_You did fine_, he finally says with the moved voice of someone who just watched the most touching spectacle. _I'm proud, Ken. I'm really proud of you, so let's finish with the doctor. Then we can fix Butters, okay?_

I smile; that's fucking sick, I'm fucking sick, but I smile desperately.

"Okay."

* * *

My head hurts.

I look at the alarm clock; it's past noon, but I can't make out the numbers clearly. The blinds of my room are safely blocking the sun, giving me the time to get out of bed lazily. When I make it to the living room, I notice there's no one home. Kevin is probably dealing drugs somewhere; mom and the old man should be working, even though it's Saturday. I don't think about it too much and turn on the TV with a bowl with cereal in hands. It's the news.

"_Another murder victim was found this morning_," the anchor announces. "_The police found the it's a young boy around 15 and 18 years old, but still unidentified._"

Something in my stomach turns.

"_The strange fact is, the boy was found inside a box. Practically all the bones of his body were broken and his teeth pulverized, which criminologists say indicates this is not the work of an amateur and slows the process of identification of the body_," they show photos of the crime scene, each of different angles, picturing the art of my murder. "_The boy was cautiously placed inside the medium-sized cardboard box, which wouldn't be possible if his bones weren't so violently crashed. Police found a pile of burned clothes few miles away—_"

I turn off the TV, and I notice the floor is wet with milk and the cereal is poured all over the carpet. My hands shake and—

And what did I do to Butters. What did I fucking do to Butters.


	8. Epilogue

**PLEASE READ, THIS IS IMPORTANT! **I'm so sorry to say this, but I'm abandoning this story for good, but I felt you guys deserved some closure. I started writing Acquainted Limbo because of my own psychiatric issues, which now I'm getting proper treatment for; I used this as a way to vent all the anger I felt, which was terribly unhealthy, but I thank you all for following the story until this point. I plan on turning this into an actual novel someday, and I hope I'll meet you again then. However, I might come back and finish this when I feel I have proper knowledge and vocabulary to continue with this plot, which I am very fond of. That is not likely to happen, but you never know, right? If you want anything further to be cleared up, you are free to PM me, leave a review or send me a message on tumblr (**shoujahitsumetsu**).

Thank you so, so, so much for reading. You've helped me a lot through the toughest times I've had.

This chapter is an epilogue; it's about what happened to Butters before he meets Kenny in the woods. I just finished it and am not proof-reading, so forgive any mistakes.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Kenny, Butters, Linda or Mudvayne's song, _Nothing to Gein_.

* * *

**Mommy, Do You Still Live Inside Of Me?**

_Butters, do this! Butters, do that!_

"Oh-okay."

_Butters, what did you do! You're such a bad child!_

"I-I'm sorry, Mom..."

He rearranges his room, trying hard to remember how Mom likes it; blue shirts to one side of the drawer, a-and the red ones—or was it shirts on top of the tees? Oh, boy; maybe she won't notice. It's okay. He organizes his desk the way Mom finds proper; homework goes here, next to his action figures... perhaps the lamp should be a little more to the right? Oh, hamburgers. But then, she might not even care. It's okay, right? Yeah. So he does his bed, just like Mom thinks a good kid would. The sheets are white, the pillow is neatly placed against the headboard, and the blanket, then the quilt—

Her silhouette is patiently waiting, a tired, loud sigh acknowledging her presence. Disappointed eyes travel through the bedroom; it hasn't changed in _years_, she reminds herself. Butters had stubbornly asked her several times to repaint it, saying he would do it himself—at what cost? Having the room completely destroyed? She had tenderly explained him that _now that your dad isn't here anymore, we don't have the money to hire someone to do the job, nor pay off any disaster you can cause with a brush and paint in hands. Do you understand?_, and he just nodded, head down.

"Why can't you do anything right," she mourns as a hand wipes the stress off her forehead, ornamented with aging lines and fatigue. "Only a mother could love you, Butters."

_Only a mother could love you, Butters —_ she always says that, whenever the chance presents itself. He still smiles; it means she loves him in some sort of way, right?

"Thanks, mom," he says with a slight pain on the back of his head. He has felt it for some time now, but never addressed the issue. It's just a little uncomfortable, nothing to make Mom worry anyways. His cheeks hurt, too, but he doesn't mind.

Good kids don't complain for just every little thing.

Ever since Dad disappeared, she is somewhat different. He understands, though — raising a child on her own must be tough!

"Look, mom," he pleads holding his breath in antecipation. "I did my bed. Ah-I know the rest is kinda messy, but isn't my bed alright?" he asks showing proudly his work. "Look! I, I even used the sheets you like the most!"

She sighs in disapproval.

"No, Butters," she grits her teeth. "All you do is just so _wrong_," she chokes, but still has a smile on her face.

_Only a mother could love you, Butters._

The pain gets a little stronger.

"Why can't you do _anything_ right," she wipes her forehead again.

"Wh, why, mom," he feels his cheeks hurt as the joy is drained from his face. "I try! D-didn't you say—"

"_What_ did I say?" she raises her tone. He flinches. "I said nothing, you little _shit_," she growls, approaching him with heavy footsteps. "Don't you put your filthy words on _my_ mouth, Butters," she grabs him by his short hair, clawing on his scalp. But geez, it was an accident; Mom wouldn't do such a thing on purpose, even if she was mad. "You **hear** me?"

"Y-yes, mom, I'm awful sorry," he squeaks, trying to hold her fist. "B-but, please, mom, it hurts—"

"It _hurts_," she mocks him. "Do you know what hurts, Butters? Do you know?" she tightens her grip, pulling his hair harder. "Having a kid like you. _That's _what hurts. I do everything for you," she shakes him, voice failing a little. "I do all I can for you, and yet you're just an ingrateful little bastard who ruined my marriage," she laughs; Mom's laughter is strange, he notices. "I had to _kill_ your father because of you. Do you understand it? You ruined my life," she laughs and laughs and laughs and _cries_.

"I-I'm sorry, mom," he smiles, though his face hurts. "I'm awful sorry, mom, I won't do it again, I swear!"

She suddenly releases him.

"It's okay, honey," she smiles and exits the room.

Gee, Mom is such a good woman. She forgives him no matter what mistake he has made. Truly, only a mother like her could love him!

A few minutes later, she is again at the frame of his door with a sweet, sweet smile.

"Butters, honey, I'll make sure you won't ever make anything wrong again," she sits down on the bed, inviting him to do the same.

"Golly, alright!" he says excitedly. Mom has found a cure for him! "Okay, mom! What should I do?"

"Just close your eyes," she commands and he promptly obeys and—

_BANG_.

He falls to the floor, processing the pain on his left temple. He removes his hand from the local and there's blood.

"M-mom," he trembles a little. "M-mommy, what is this—"

She jumps on him, her fist right to his eye.

"I'm curing you, honey!" she exclaims so excited. "I just figured that, if you're dead, my life won't be a living hell anymore," she laughs, pinning him down to the floor, hitting him with her hands and elbows, making his skin purple and bruised. "Isn't it great, Butters!"

"Bu-but, mom," he tries to deflect from her blows, "please, mom, please, please, stop," he cries as his body burns in pain, "mommy, please!"

"Keep quiet, honey," she says, laughing hysterically. "Don't worry, everything is just fine."

He struggles, tries to take her off of him; _why why why why_, he asks himself. He tries so hard, so hard to be the child Mom deserves! Why is Mom doing this, why! Doesn't she love him?

"Honey, you're making it difficult," she says in a motherly tone, never ceasing her blasts of what she believes to be love.

"Mom, no," he pleads, trying to crawl away from her. "Mom, I love you, I'm sorry," he cries, but she pulls him back, hitting him right on his spine with her knuckles. "Mom, it hurts! It hurts bad! Please, mom, please, stop!"

"No, honey, I need to do this. You have to be punished."

He gets to the foot of his bed, drawing a knife from under the sheets. Dad once told him to keep it there; in case monsters attack him, and he now believes Mom is turning into a monster.

"Honey, put that away," she orders. "Mommy doesn't like it," she says disapprovingly, raising her fist again.

Before Mom can hit him again, he runs the knife right into her chest. She falls back, coughing. _I'm sorry, mom, sorry, sorry, sorry_, he thinks — and each apology is a time the knife goes in and out of her chest. "Mommy, I'm sorry," he says on the verge of tears again, but he smiles. "Mommy, are you proud? I'm standing up for myself," he says, pulling the knife in and out and in and out and in and out until he loses track of how many times it has been that he has stabbed Mom's chest. "Mom," he calls as the pain on the back of his head eases. "Mom, look," he says, finally smiling without his cheeks hurting. "I freed you, mom! I freed you. It's okay now, right? It's okay," he laughs, continuingly stabbing her. "I love you, mom! I love you, I know you love me, too," he keeps repeating the movement until his arms are hurting. "I know you did it so I could learn my lesson, and I've learned! I know now, I know you just wanted me to stand up for myself," he shakes his head, sticking the knife one last time in Mom's lifeless body. "I was so foolish. Thanks, mom," he says, letting himself catch his breath.

Mom is such a good woman.

She indeed loves him!

Now he has to go away. Just like Dad had told him to, if he ever faced a monster. He has to go far, far away.


End file.
